Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

Task 2 - The Games [HOLIDAY]

AUTHOR GAMES: CANON - TASK TWO

When the gong rings out, Moire remains stationary, sedentary, stone.

The sharp bones of his rear rest against the metal of the pedestal. Skinny legs situate themselves like wings, criss-cross, and if he could fly away he most certainly would. But he is neither angel nor butterfly, so he remains there, elbows digging into his thighs, hands gripping his forehead, shaky fingers curling into the blonde of his hair. See? No halo. He feels no halo so there's no way for him to fly away and, god, he's gonna die here, isn't he?

"Here" is not a pleasant place to die. The way he's sitting, he can see out a few feet in front of him, beneath the fidgety shield of his hands. There's nothing but dead, brittle grass, tinted grey-green here and dry brown there. He doesn't need to see anything else because he already caught a glimpse of this place, of the open plain and the golden Cornucopia, a drought and a harvest juxtaposing one another. The contrast was what made him sit down. The contrast made him realize this was happening. This is happening.

He flushes all over again, body getting red and hot like the calm embers up above. Stop. In his chest he can feel the thick clunking of his heart, wild and scared and wet, and he focuses on this instead of the footsteps of everyone still running to make their own name or to get what they need to survive and Moire is not going to survive. His heart will give out before the chance appears. This doesn't feel right, this doesn't feel right and he's already afflicted and that's not good because when your body doesn't work right you die. Everyone knows that. His chest hurts. Something is wrong.

It's just anxiety, he tells himself, find a fucking distraction right now. Or you fucking will die.

The hands leave his hair and drop to pick at the brown fabric of his pants. His right knee is bobbing now but he ignores that and looks out across the arena, at the people who are either still making their way to the center or making an escape into the surrounding trees. That's a good start. Trees. Behind him. He squints but can't see too deep into them as is - it's only dawn, it seems, and the light filtering through whatever drifts in the sky is weak and grey - so there's no way to tell whether they're truly safe. It's rather basic, though; the trees are as dead as the plain, needles browned by too harsh a sun and too little water. That's clue number one: There will be no water here.

Calmer now, he swivels his head around to get a good look at the other half, but the first scream of the day resonates in the sky, hitting the grey clouds and bouncing back, an atmosphere unpenetrated. Moire thinks maybe this is why they have a dome to lock them in, so the sound bounces back, but maybe that's just the sound of the blood rushing through his ears or maybe it's the unprecedented yelp that leaves his throat as adrenaline crashes into his chest and forces his body into action.

He needs to get out. He needs to escape.

Moire's fingertips touch the sides of the cold pedestal and he lifts himself precariously, legs wobbling and knees threatening to buckle. His ass is slick with sweat, he can feel it already, and as he rises a dizziness swirls about his head and he blinks rapidly to try and rid himself of it. It makes him sick. His stomach sloshes with the chyme of his breakfast. What if someone cuts him open and all the digested gunk falls out and they think he's disgusting? And then: Why the fuck is he thinking about how gross his innards will be even though he won't care because he'll be fucking deceased?

It's not time for this. He needs to go. He takes a step back, meaning to drop off his pedestal and take off at a run, but then the clash of metal screams in the air and a girl screeches with an agony that makes Moire's blood curdle. Shaky legs lose themselves and weakness makes him stumble backwards until he's toppled off the pedestal completely. His hip strikes the earth, then his back, and then he's laying there. One sucking breath. "Fuck." Then he scrambles to his knees, scrambles up behind his silver pedestal to use it as cover. Dainty fingers grab hold of the edge, and he slowly pulls himself up just enough to peer over.